


Tetrao Lepus Pseudo-Hybridus Rarissimus L.

by oneiriad



Category: DC Comics, Hellblazer
Genre: Gen, No skvaders were harmed during the production of this fic, Sandman Universe era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:47:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24577057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneiriad/pseuds/oneiriad
Summary: Being a narrative of sundry encounters with fauna most unreal.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 23
Collections: Fandom 5K 2020





	1. The Skvader

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Who Shot AR (akerwis)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akerwis/gifts).



The phone call comes at the ungodly, unnatural, downright horrible hour of 1 pm. The ringtone is something obnoxiously pop-inspired, and he can hear the laughter right underneath it.

He's barely finished cursing out Vestibulan when he actually answers, and the person on the other end probably heard the tail end of that, pausing before opening their mouth.

”John? I need you to come down to the pub.”

”Can it wait?” he asks, because it's been a very long couple of nights and he has very important sleep to catch up on. ”Are you even open for business yet?”

”We get tourists for gastropub lunches, which is why this can't wait. This is your sort of bullshit and my boss is furious.”

”Your boss the royalist?”

”Fix this and he'll be grateful enough to forgive your tab.”

”Right. Be there in a mo.”

A mo, in this case, turns out to be closer to an hour, because his wheels are at school and the Tube is acting up again. He gets to The Long Lugs, ignores the ”closed” sign on the door and walks right in.

And stops.

Takes it all in, then glances at Nat, sitting by the bar.

”So, stop me if you've heard this one before: a priest, a rabbit and a monk walk into a bar...:”

”... and the rabbit says: ”I think I'm a typo”, Nat finishes the bad joke. She looks just a tad tired. ”Nope, never heard that one before, working at a place with a bunny sign out front.”

The bunnies are all over the pub – 'scuse you, micro brewery. They're on the floor and on the tables nipping at half-wilted flowers and on the bar, curiously investigating the beer taps. A couple of them seem to be engaged in a boxing match, and another is coming out of the kitchen, munching on a ridiculously huge mouthful of some sort of overpriced bit of frilly salad.

The bunny in question spreads its wings and flies up to join a couple of its mates at a table, dropping its salad in front of the one with the less fancy tail and looking very satisfied with itself.

”At first I thought it might be some idiots pulling a particularly animal-unfriendly prank on us. But nope, the wings are real enough.” Nat lifts a hand to take a pull on her vape, and John notices the rag wrapped around it, a couple of spots of red showing. She follows his eyes and shrugs. ”One of the big ones took offense at me trying to yank its wing off. Can't say I blame it.”

Which – fair.

”So, what are they?” she asks.

”Haven't the foggiest, love,” John shrugs and picks up the one that's nosing around his shoes. It fluffs its wings up a bit, but settles down in the crook of his arm after he steals a bit of the other bunny's salad loot and feeds it with. ”What are you?”

It doesn't answer, just munches. Well, you never know, it might have.

”Well, whatever they are, they can't stay here. We've already lost the lunch rush and we'll need to have the whole place scrubbed down before opening, or the health authorities will be doing a surprise check tonight.”

”Call animal control?”

”And tell them what, exactly?”

”Yeah, good point,” he concedes, then starts scritching his new friend behind the ears. It gets a downright blissfull bunny expression and nearly starts sliding off his arm. Heh.

”I think I know where to take them.”

It ends up taking longer than expected, because the bunnies chew holes in the first cardboard box before they've even finished rounding them up, and collecting a few dozen pet carriers at short notice ain't simple. After that, they have to wait until after school hours to get hold of Noah and the kid ends up not quite being able to decide whether he wants to pet the bunnies or write rude notes to John and finally settles on doing both, which takes even more time.

Predictably, Tommy Willowtree turns out to be utterly, obnoxiously delighted to take the bunnies in until they can figure out how to send them back wherever they mysteriously came from. In five minutes flat he's already liberated about half of them from their unjust imprisonment in the pet carriers, chattering about biodynamic carrots and whatnot.

From the vantage point of the back of a sofa, his girlfriend's cats are observing the invading army of rodents with indifference. Possibly considering the likelihood of bunny steak for dinner, but fortunately, that's not going to be John's headache.

”Hey, Mr. C.,” Tommy calls as John's letting himself out. ”I don't think these little darlings are rabbits.”

”Of course not. They're obviously pigeons.”

”No, the tails look more like some sort of grouse. Anyway, not what I meant. I mean, I think they're some sort of hares.”

It takes John a few tries to escape the nattering about biological specifics, but eventually he makes his escape. Sadly, by then, his wheels have gone away – probably to visit his Mum in the hospital – and he's stuck walking to the nearest Tube station.

He's standing in the train when something moves in his coat pocket and he slams his hand down automatically to catch the pickpocket, only to grasp nothing but air. He glances down and finds a pair of brown eyes looking back, curiously. For a moment, he considers getting off, catching the next train back to Tommy's, but – hell, it's been a long day and he's fucking tired and it's not like letting the bloody bunny spend one night will get him kicked out for breaking the no-pets clause on his flat.


	2. The Charlton Brimstone Butterfly

Having an encounter with D.S. Davinder Dole that will hopefully neither end nor begin with any manner of bladed weaponry being held to anybody's genitalia is a refreshing experience, in John's humble opinion.

Especially since the memory still makes certain of John's bits try to climb back into the womb, so to speak.

Anyway, it's a nice change to get a text message telling him to show up in the entrance hall of the Natural History Museum near closing time instead of a surprise knife in a public men's room.

So, he double-checked to make sure that Scarlet O'Hare's food and water bowls were full, gave her a scritch and a ”Sorry, luv, you can't come today. They'd stuff you if they saw you,” before heading out.

As you do. Responsible pet owner, him.

He's strolling around Hintze Hall, craning his neck to get a decent look at the whale skeleton dangling precariously from wires and wondering morbidly what would happen if the bloody thing suddenly fell down and squashed a bunch of tourists, when the good D.S. makes his appearance.

”Mr. Constantine.”

”Detective.”

”This way, please,” and he's led to a door marked ”staff only” and into the backstage labyrinth of hallways that most public buildings have.

”So, what's this about? Your message just said you'd make it worth my while.”

”Ah yes, about that. I've been talking to some of my older colleagues – apparently, some of them claim that, while you are most certainly an – unsavoury – character, then you have a history of being occasionally helpful to the police, in matters of an – unusual nature.”

”Translation: some of the old coppers would call me up once in a blue moon if something freaky happened. Don't know if you've heard, Detective, but there's a very nice young man running around town these days, who be more than happy...”

”I've met Mr. Willowtree,” Dole cuts him off. ”What I am trying to do here is see for myself if you are actually capable of handling something freaky without racking up a body count.”

”And the making it worth my while?” he asks as they wait for an elevator, deciding that yes, draping himself on the other man's shoulder and batting his eyelashes is exactly the thing to do here.

Dole sends him a glare out of the corner of his eyes.

”We have a decent budget for consultants, Mr. Constantine.”

The elevator opens with a ping and Dole steps forward, making him stumble from the sudden loss of balance before following suit.

Spoilsport.

”Right, fine. I'll play along. What's up anyways – somebody unearth a stuffed Bigfoot in the basement?”

”It is my understanding that they've found a butterfly,” Dole replies, exiting the elevator.

”You've got to be joking? A fucking butterfly?”

*** 

There's a butterfly.

There's some sort of collapsible net cage sitting on a table in an utterly modern looking and utterly trashed conference room, and in the cage is a couple of flowering plants, and on one of them a butterfly is resting, wings spread.

It looks like a pretty ordinary butterfly, yellow with black spots on its wings.

Not that John knows the first thing about butterflies – well, apart from about two dozen spells that use their powdered wings for ingredients, but he's not sure that counts. He suspects the probably-a-scientist-of-some-description looking woman standing next to the butterfly cage might not think it does. Wrong sort of museum for that.

”So. Let me get this straight. You're telling me you found this butterfly fluttering around in the Creepy Crawlies gallery four days ago, and since then, every room you try to keep it in has been thrashed overnight?”

”Yes,” and she gestures towards the sad remains of a projector dangling from the ceiling. ”We assumed this room would be less interesting to trash than any of our actual exhibits or collections, or my office, but apparently we were wrong about that.”

”Don't you have security cameras?”

”They do,” Dole states. ”The ones in the area doesn't show anything, and if there's one in the room, it's the first thing that gets broken.”

”Ah.”

John walks over to the table and pokes at the butterfly cage, prompting the bug to flutter about a bit before settling down again.

”So – what's so special about this one anyway?”

”We believe it's a Charlton Brimstone.”

”And for those of us who don't spend our sundays running around the countryside with a net?”

”Papilio ecclipsis, according to Carl Linnaeus. The only known specimen was found by a man called William Charlton back at the start of the 18th century, and then about a century later it was proven to be a fake and destroyed by the keeper of National Curiosities at the time.”

”A fake butterfly?”

”Yes. Somebody had taken a common brimstone and applied a bit of ink. Anyway, a replica was made later, for exhibition purposes – we've been planning to use it for a temporary exhibit involving other hoax animals, fake mermaids and Jenny Hannivers and the like, next year.”

”So, that butterfly in there is a fake butterfly?”

”Oh no. We've checked very carefully. That is a 100% authentic and alive specimen of a Charlton Brimstone.”

”Which doesn't exist.”

”No.”

”And where's the fake replica of it?”

”Missing.”

”Okay, so – that's all very weird, but – possibly outside my area of expertise?”

”Indeed,” Detective Dole nods. ”And outside police purvey, apart from the possibility that the fake specimen was stolen. But the repeated cases of vandalism that seems to be following this animal – whatever it is – around, that is our concern.”

”Detective – are you asking me on a stakeout?”

*** 

They decide to stay in the meeting room, since everything of any actual value in it has already been trashed. They leave the butterfly on one table and drag another to the far end of the room. Really, to be a proper stakeout they should be hiding themselves somewhere outside the room, but apparently that was tried the previous night, and all the police doing the stakeout had gotten out of that had been standing in the hallway, trying to open a door that would not budge and listening to howls and crashes from the meeting room.

They share a home-cooked meal brought by D.S. Dole and get into a mostly good-natured argument over the merits of footie vs. cricket to while away the hours until midnight.

If whatever is happening is something within John's area of expertise, he's willing to bet good money that it's going to kick off at midnight. Supernatural forces are nothing if not theatrical, in his experience.

Sadly, Dole won't take the bet.

Which is a damn shame, because John would have won. Exactly at midnight something smashes the light bulbs that must have been replaced earlier that day, casting the meeting room into total darkness, and then something starts to howl.

That's fine. They brought flashlights. They can see just fine.

Judging by the way the good detective swears, John's willing to bet that he's never seen a ghost before. And lo and behold, now he's even getting to see two at once.

They're somewhat transparent – not some sort of glowing Star Wars ghosties or any other Hollywood nonsense, just – not quite there. More smoke than tangible, and yet not.

One of them more overdressed than dressed – lots of buttons and layers and a wig that threatens to come alive and try to eat something. The other is in something slightly more modern and underwhelming, and the slightly curling hair is probably his own.

They are both men, they are both white, and they are both busily making rapid gestures at the butterfly in its cage, shouting things that nobody can hear and in general giving off an overwhelming impression of going ”what the actual fuck?” in old-fashioned and possibly very emotional Natural Philosopher.

Around them, the entire room is swirling, and both John and Dole have to dodge the chairs getting picked up and hurled at walls, the shard of the broken light bulbs following close by, and next goes the leftover samosas that John had had plans for. But around the two ghosts and the cage with the butterfly between them it's as utterly quiet as in the eye of a hurricane.

John finds himself laughing, which earns him a pissed off glare from Dole. The detective is shouting something at him, but he can't hear anything over the howling.

”We should get out of here!” he shouts back, and edges towards the door. Which sadly refuses to budge. Typical. Guess there's no way around it then.

”Gentlemen!” he says, stepping forward and into the ghosts' direct field of vision, attracting their attention. ”What seems to be the problem here?”

There is a moment of silence, and then the pair of them practically pounce on him. He wonders briefly how it must look from the outside. He glances in Dole's direction and sees the man looking like he wants to wade in and do something, except this isn't some late night brawl where he can just yank the offending parties away by the shirt collar.

Then he's drowning in the fury of the two ghosts and everything fades away for a bit.

*** 

When he regains consciousness it's to find himself lying on a couch in what turns out to be the security staff's lounge.

Dole is hovering.

Mind you, he's also bringing tea with something extra, which is just what the doctor would order after a mild case of ghostly possession, so John's willing to forgive the hovering.

Once he's drained the cup and the detective has had time to compose himself, it's Dole that breaks the silence.

”What happened?”

”Just got a crash course on fake entomology through the ages,” John shrugs.

”Which means?”

”The guy in the wig. He's the one who sent in the original fake butterfly. Thought it was going to be great fun, was going to wait a bit and then write a letter to the Times or something, except then he up and died and nobody the wiser. The other was the guy who figured out it was a fake.”

Dole sinks down on a chair and looks like he could do with some reinforced tea himself. Poor bugger. Meeting the supernatural up close and personal the first time can throw anyone for a loop.

”Anyway, they both mostly wanted to tell somebody that that butterfly – what happened with it, anyway?”

”Nothing. Still in its cage, completely untouched.”

”Figures. Anyway, they really wanted to tell somebody that it was fake. Is fake. They were – very emphatic about that.”

”So, how do we make them go away? Do we need to call in some sort of priest or...”

”Nah, they've probably already dissipated. Ghosts like these, most of the time all it takes to make them move on is letting them air their grievances. ”

He climbs to his feet and looks around for his coat, then pulls it on and starts walking towards the door, not entirely sure on his feet, but getting there.

”Feel free to have someone keep an eye on the butterfly tomorrow night, and if nothing happens, guess I did my job, didn't I?

He's just about to step out the door when Dole gathers his wits enough to ask: ”And the butterfly? Where did that come from?”

”Ask the professors. I'm a mage, not an entomologist.”

He lets the door fall shut behind him and finds himself standing in an anonymous hallway next to a museum security guard.

”So, which way is out?”


	3. The Belarussian Shore Muddler & The Wild Haggis

”You know I hate the flashy stuff,” he grumbles to Zatanna in the aftermath, trying to wipe the blue slime off his coat. Trying being the operative word. ”Did you have to drag me into this?”

”Sorry, John. It was an all hands on deck situation.”

Zatanna's smile is apologetic, at least. Around them, an assorted bunch of superheroes are doing their best to get rid of the blue slime that's clinging to their outlandish capes and costumes.

He glances at Zatanna.

”You wouldn't happen to know a place nearby that dry-cleans?”

”I might. I might even know a place that will serve you Chinese takeaway while you wait?”

”Well, what are we waiting for – no, wait....” he adds, just as she opens her mouth, and darts off. A couple of minutes later he's back, and she raises her eyebrow in a question.

”Sorry – there's this kid back home I'm kinda keeping an eye on these days. I figured he might be happy to have Superman's autograph. Kids like that sort of crap, right?”

Zatanna just rolls her eyes, before casting the spell to bring them both to her home.

*** 

He's standing mostly naked in Zatanna's bathroom, about to put on the nice, soft, pink bathrobe she's kindly lent him while his clothes are getting washed – she'd offered to lend him some actual clothes, but she's a few sizes smaller than him and he'd hate to rip anything – when something bumps against the bathroom door and makes a sad snuffling noise.

He finishes puts on the robe and opens the door, and someting trot-waddles very quickly right across his feet and start jumping, trying to get into the bathtub.

It's not very succesful.

”Zatanna? Did you get a pet?”

”Just put him in the tub and run a bit of water. He'll splash about and be happy.”

So John does as instructed, then sits down on the edge of the tub and looks at the whatever it is.

Pig's head, that's obvious enough, some sort of big, fluffy tail and a pair of hindfeet that looks like they belong on a duck and not a – whatever this is.

He's just about to call for his host when she walks through the bathroom door, dressed in slacks and a t-shirt and carrying a certain winged hare in her arms.

”This one jumped out of your pocket,” she comments and hands Scarlet O'Hare to him.

”Yeah, she does that sometimes. Got her from a pub a couple of months ago. She likes dandelions.” He scritches his pet and lets her settle against the soft robe. ”Where'd you find that one? It looks like a taxidermist played Frankenstein.”

”A bit. I call him Kermit,” and she leans forward to pet the water piglet, making it oink in pleasure. ”From what I've been able to find out, he's a Belarussian Shore Muddler.”

”That's a thing?”

”No, that's a taxidermist's joke belonging to a museum in Sweden. And yet, somehow, here is Kermit, alive and well and eating every bowl of peas I put in front of him.”

”Peas?”

”Oh yes. He's got a thing for peas,” and apparently also an ability to recognize the word, because suddenly the water-piglet is oinking excitedly, drumming its front feet against the bathtub's side and clearly demanding to be picked up and delivered to said peas.

It's a little adorable.

*** 

They settle down in Zatanna's living room with their dinner – as promised, Chinese takeaway for her and John, while Scarlet O'Hare and Kermit are enthusiasticly munching on their respective bowls of green stuff.

”It's strange,” Zatanna comments, then eats a wonton before continuing. ”Lately, I've encountered several cases of – I'm not even sure what to call it, really. Unreal animals, perhaps? There's Kermit, of course, and I got called to Gotham because their local aquarium had somehow acquired a furry trout.”

”As in a fish with fur?”

”Exactly. Which is something all the scientists swore up and down had never existed, but if you look back in history, people used to claim it did. Sometimes even brought faked version back from long trips. But suddenly there was one just swimming in their otter tank and very nearly otter food before they got it out of there.”

”It just showed up?”

She nods and chews on a mouthful of noodles.

”Next you'll be telling me you've had a run-in with drop bears.”

”Oh, I did that last week. Nearly lost a finger to the grumpy thing. Anyway,” and she gestures towards the not-technically-a-hare on the floor with her chin, ”you wouldn't have happened to run across anything similar.

”Funny you should mention it – I mean, Scarlet showed up at this pub I go to in London. Her and a bunch of others like her, but she decided to tag along with me after I got the rest of them relocated to the house of this hipster mage that's been running around town lately.”

”And you – decided to bring her along to a battle for the fate of the universe?”

”In my defense, your message just said to meet you by Loch Ness on saturday – and I couldn't get a pet sitter.”

As if she's aware that she's the current topic of discussion, Scarlet O'Hare wanders over and nibbles at the edge of John's nice, fluffy bathrobe. He picks her up and settles her in his lap, petting her soft fur and feathers.

”But I've been noticing a few odd things myself lately. A few weeks ago, I had to help deal with a couple of entomologist poltergeists at a museum.”

”Entomologist poltergeists?” Zatanna repeats, probably because how often do you get to actually put those two words together in a sentence?

”Couple of long dead entomologists who were very upset, because a fake butterfly had turned up very much alive.”

”Well, apart from a lack of ghosts, that fits the pattern I've been seeing,” Zatanna frowns. ”So, that means it's been happening in both the States and London.”

”And Scotland. Are you going to finish that pork?” She hands him the container and he digs in happily enough. ”I saw some wild haggis the other day.”

”Haggis. As in – the food?”

”Well, I didn't eat them. Want the story?”

Zatanna nods, picking up a takeout container with something chicken.

”So, your message said meet you at Loch Ness saturday, but when I looked into getting there, the cheapest I could find was a mid-week flight from London, and I figured, it's been ages since I had a holiday. I went a couple of days early, did the touristy stuff – scenic walks, dodging Pokemon players, local pub crawl. Took the boat out on the lake and got off at Castle Urquhart, took this tourist tour bus back to my AirBnb, right?

Anyway, the guide on the bus had this routine, all very rehearsed, little good-natured fun with the tourists, everybody's in on the joke sort of thing. They stop the bus by this little field and go ”have you heard of the wild haggis? Tiny, fluffy animal, looks like a furry sausage, look carefully and you might spot one now.” 'Cept then the poor girl nearly choked on her microphone, because guess what was playing on that field?”

”A haggis?”

” _A_ haggis? Zatanna, it was crawling with the little buggers. Tiny sausage rodents, exactly as advertised. Scarlet spent half an hour running around playing with them before they decided to make themselves scarce. Of course, by then the bus had left and I ended up having to call a taxi.”


	4. The Dahu, the Wolpertinger & the Skvader 2.0

One day you're complaining to your friend that you really need a vacation, the next you're boarding a train heading for the Continent with an Interrail ticket in a pocket and a winged hare in a pet carrier covered in a small blanket in one hand.

He ends up spending several days meandering his way through France, making Vestibulan book him into AirBnbs in various tiny towns and look up schedules for various local trains. He visits vineyards and random castles and places that really, really want to sell him cheeses bigger than his own head. It's nice. Relaxing.

In the evenings, he hangs out at the local bars, drinking whatever beer the local bartender vouches for and hoping that nobody will notice a certain long-eared critter sticking her head of his pocket for scritches and bits of carrot. Half the locals have no English at all and his French is abysmal and mostly limited to swear words, but that's alright.

He's in a tiny town in the Alps the name of which he's already forgotten when a man sits down next to him, orders the stiffest drink they have and then claims, ”I saw a Dahu.”

Half the customers nearly die laughing.

It's later, over a few pints, that the fellow manages to explain to John and a couple of other curious out-of-towners that a Dahu is apparently a local sort of fairytale animal, a goat with legs of different length ”the better to climb the mountains, see?” Anyway, everybody knows Dahus are fake. They're a local favourite, tourists buy tickets for Dahu hunts and everybody except the very occasional unusually clueless American knows that means a nice nature hike with a few scenic photo opportunities and, if you pay a bit extra, a picnic basket waiting for you around lunchtime.

Dahus don't exist. Except in his next breath, this guy insists that he saw one.

John buys another round for everybody, then wanders out in the cool evening air to try to remember the way to his room. He ends up needing to have Vestibulan grumpily direct him via GPS.

The next morning he catches a train towards the Swiss border. As it rolls through the lovely, scenic landscape, he finds himself looking out the window and sees a very curious sight: some form of mountain goat getting chased by a person dressed up as a scarecrow.

He decides that he could use a nap. Clearly, he's seeing things.

*** 

After a brief detour into Switzerland and a visit to the HR Giger Museum, of which the less said the better, John finds himself in Germany.

The language is different, obviously, and there are more breweries and fewer vineyards to visit, but apart from that it feels remarkably similar to his stay in France, though he's wise enough not to mention that to anybody.

He's in Bavaria, taking a nice, scenic walk in the woods with Scarlet O'Hare hopping alongside, when something rustles in the undergrowth. He moves to pick her up, his immediate thought a fox or perhaps a wolf – do they even have wolves in Bavaria? - but she dodges his hands, which is a first, and promptly runs headfirst towards the rustling.

”Damnit, Scarlet!” and he finds himself following her, hoping that he's not going to end up with any broken bones. He catches a glimpse of a winged rodent a bit further in and follows the rustling noises.

Clearly, she's a hare on a mission.

There's a clearing up ahead and the rustling is heading towards it, and then Scarlet bolts out in the clearing.

Except no. That's not Scarlet, because Scarlet doesn't have fucking antlers. Or fangs, for that matter. Or, hopefully, an expression of sheer, rabbit-y panick as this new whatever-it-is leaps along.

Scarlet makes her appearance, running downright aggresively towards the thing, wings mantled in some form of threat display, and John finds himself running towards the pair of them, because clearly this isn't a potential playmate like the haggis, but he's far from sure that the current dynamics between the animals are going to continue.

After all, the fucking thing has fangs. For all he knows, it might be some form of predator, fluffy rabbit body aside.

In the end, even if it, it's clearly not brave enough to stand up to Scarlet O'Hare. It spreads its wings and flies off into the forest, and John manages to finally catch Scarlet before she can do the same. She looks very reproachfully at him, but settles down eventually.

He carries her all the way back to the village, just to be sure she doesn't go chasing any more random winged rabbit-y things.

*** 

That evening he's sitting in the local beer hall nursing a pint, a very offended weight in his pocket refusing to poke her head out no matter the temptations offered.

He doesn't bother to look up at the sound of the front door opening and closing. He knows nobody in town and nobody knows him. Just a passing tourist. Nothing to see here.

Somebody puts a brimming glass of beer down in front of him and settles down across from him, making him look up.

The man is very tall.

John squints at him. There's something unnervingly familiar about him, though he can't quite put his finger on it.

”Have we met before?”

”Not as such, no, Mr. Constantine.”

That makes him sit up straighter. Strange men walking into random beer halls and just finding him there, well, that's not generally a good sign.

”I have been given to understand that you might be able to assist me with a small matter,” the man continues, taking a judgmental sip from his own beer.

John picks up his own glass and tastes it. The beer is excellent and the guy across from him is clearly a bit stuck-up.

”And what small matter might that be, Mr. - ?”

”You can call me Lucien,” the other replies. ”And it has been brought to my attention that you might be able to assist me in finding a small flock of skvaders, which has gone astray.”

”Of what?”

”Skvaders. They'd look like a form of rabbit or hare, except with wings.”

John straightens up, suddenly grateful that Scarlet is offended and refusing to stick her head out. He considers denying that he's ever seen anything resembling skvaders, but, well – he sucks at lying when he's drunk and the beer was definitely not watered down.

”What are they to you?”

”We recently had some upheavals back home. The matter was eventually dealt with, but several animals managed to get spooked and escape the – their pens. We have been working on locating them all since.”

Lucien looks slightly embarrassed about that.

”Right. And if, for the sake of argument, I might know where you might find something like that – what's in it for me?”

Lucien's eyes narrow.

”A small finder's fee could be negotiated.”

”Small?”

”As I said, it could be negotiated.”

”And if I were to say that small is beneath my pay grade?”

”Then I'd say our business here is concluded. I have other means of investigation, this would merely have been one of the simpler ways to go about it.”

Lucien rises, adjusting his coat. He really is ridiculously tall.

”Now, now, squire, no need for that. How about you sit down and let me finish my pint, and I'm sure we can come to an agreement?”

*** 

John doesn't remember leaving the beer hall in Bavaria. This is not particularly worrisome – it's hardly the first bar in his life he doesn't remember leaving.

It's more worrying that he can't remember leaving Germany, and nevertheless, here he is, walking through the streets of London and towards the Grokk & Roll's obnoxiously familiar facade. The door is open despite it being late, light and some sort of electronica folksong spilling out into the public streets.

John glances at the man walking next to him. Somehow, he looks even taller now, and there's something off about his ears.

He goes over the possibilities in his mind, dismisses one of the more worrisome because the beer hall had a horseshoe nailed over the entrance, then decides to hazard a guess.

”I think I met your boss once,” he says, aiming for casual. ”Tall fellow, dressed in black. Bossy.”

Lucien doesn't comment.

John grins and tells him what he wants for a finder's fee.

”Agreed.”

*** 

Collecting the skvaders from Tommy's place turns out to be simple enough. Tommy himself isn't at home - ”Off on a three day meditation retreat” his boyfriend Athelstan explains as he passes them in the door, but the girlfriend Waterwheel is more than happy to assist John and Lucien in gathering the animals from every corner they try to hide in and putting them into a cardboard box that really shouldn't be big enough to contain the lot of them.

”That's the last of them,” she says, climbing down from the chair she had to stand on to get the one hiding on the top of the bookshelves. Her cats are purring happily, winding around her feet in a way that would make a lesser person trip and fall.

”Ta, luv,” and off they go into the street.

”Guess this is where we go our separate ways, eh, squire?”

Lucien is frowning down into the box in his arms.

”Mr. Constantine. I believe our agreement was for the flock?”

”Yeah? And you got 'em all in that TARDIS box of yours.”

”The entire flock, Mr. Constantine,” and Lucien glances significantly at him.

Something moves in his pocket. It feels – a little sheepish.

When he hands her over, Scarlet O'Hare looks at him with betrayal in her tiny bunny face. Still, she'll be much happier with her own sort, back in her own home. London's no place for a – a skvader.

*** 

He wakes in his own bed, which is slightly concerning, because he can't recall exactly how he made it home or when he fell asleep.

Still, there are things to do. Like putting the pet bowls and rabbit toys in a bag to be handed in at the Oxfam store. Like calling a bed and breakfast in Germany and sweet talk the hostess into sending his bag home for just a small extra fee. Like going back to the Long Lugs to spend an evening nursing fancy brewpub beer and debate with himself whether to share the end of the story with Nat or if that will be the point of no return of dragging her into his bullshit world.

At one point his cell phone lets out a piercing wolf whistle – Vestibulan's idea of a joke, no doubt – and he digs it out of his pocket to find a text message from Zatanna, asking if he by chance has been by her place and absconded with Kermit. He doesn't answer.

It's later and the streets of London are dark as he walks homewards, when he feels something moving in the pocket of his trenchcoat. He looks down and a small, furry face with big, brown eyes look up at him.

”Hello, darling,” and he scritches Scarlet O'Hare behind her ears, just the way she likes it.

*** 

In another part of London, in a bed in a terminal ward, Detective Inspector Liza Ikumelo opens her eyes for the first time in seven years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of information about the sundry beasties who make appearances in this story:
> 
> The **Skvader** is of Swedish origin, described as having the front part of a hare and the wings and tail of a wood grouse. It was invented by the Swede Håkan Dahlmark in the late 19th century as part of the tall tales he enjoyed telling people of his hunts.
> 
> The **Charlton Brimstone Butterfly** was submitted shortly before his death by butterfly collector William Charlton, examined by professional entomologists and even Carl Linnaeus himself and fooled the lot of them. In 1793, the Danish entomologist John Christian Fabricius found out it was a fake - a common butterfly with a few drops of ink to created a dotted effect on its wings.
> 
> The **Belarussian Shore Muddler** has lived a quiet life as an april fool's joke at the Göteborg Museum of Natural History since 1963. Your imagination is cuter than the taxidermy, trust me.
> 
> The **Wild Haggis** \- well, haggis is a Scottish dish. The Wild Haggis is a joke played on tourists who didn't read the ingredients list of said dish.
> 
> The **Dahu** can be - well, can not be found in the mountains of France and the French-speaking parts of neighbouring countries. It's described as a mountain goat with legs of different lengths for optimal mountain running abilities.
> 
> The **Wolpertinger** can supposedly be found in the southern parts of Germany and is at the extreme end of the rabbits with sundry extra bits creatures: supposedly, it has antlers, wings, and fangs - it varies a bit.


End file.
